Other Worlds: The Turner Diaries, Chapter 8. Puke (TM) Audio Book

Chapter Eight.Show more

November 4, 1991. Soup and bread again tonight, and not much
of that. Our money is almost gone, and there still hasn't been
anything from WFC. If our pay doesn't come through in the next
couple of days, we'll have to resort to armed robbery again-an
unpleasant prospect.
Unit 2 still has what seems to be an unlimited supply of food, and
we'd already be in a much worse way if they hadn't given us that
carload of canned goods a month ago-especially since we now
have seven mouths to feed. But it is just too dangerous to drive up
to Maryland for our food supply. The chances are too great of
running into a police roadblock.
That is the most noticeable-and to the public it must be by far the
most irritating-consequence to date of our terror campaign. Travel
by private automobile has become-at least, in the Washington area-
a nightmare, with enormous traffic jams everywhere caused by the
police checks. In the last few days this police activity has increased
significantly, and it looks as if it will remain a regular feature of
life for the foreseeable future.
So far, however, they haven't been stopping pedestrians,
bicyclists, or buses. We can still get around, although less
conveniently than before.
Oops, there go the lights again. This is the second time this
evening we've had to break out the candles. Until this year, the
worst power shortages have occurred in the summer, but it's
November now and we're still stuck with the "temporary" 15
percent voltage reduction they imposed in July. Even this perpetual
"brownout" isn't saving us from an increasing number of
involuntary blackouts.
It's obvious that somebody's profiting from the power shortage,
though. When Katherine was lucky enough to find some candles at
one of the grocery stores last week, she had to pay S1.50 apiece for
them. The price of kerosene and gasoline lanterns has gone out of sight, but the hardware stores never have any of them in stock
anyway. When I next have some free time, I'll see what I can
improvise in that direction.

We have been maintaining the pressure against the System during
the past week with a lot of one-man, low-risk activities. There have
been approximately 40 grenade attacks against Federal buildings
and media facilities in Washington, for example, and our unit is
responsible for 11 of them.
Since it is now virtually impossible to enter any Federal building
except a post office without a complete body-search, we have had
to be ingenious. On one occasion Henry simply pulled the pin on a
fragmentation grenade and then slipped it down between two
cartons on a big pallet of freight waiting outside the freight door of
the Washington Post, wedging it so that the safety lever was held
in place by the cartons. He didn't wait around, but news reports
later confirmed that there was an explosion inside the Post building
which killed one employee and seriously wounded three others.
Most often, however, we have used grenade-throwers improvised
from shotguns. They give us a maximum range of more than 150
yards, but the grenade always explodes sooner than that unless the
delay element is modified. All one needs to use them effectively is
a place of concealment within about 100 yards of the target.
We have fired from the back seat of a moving auto, from the
restroom window of an adjacent building, and-at night- from a
patch of shrubbery in a small park across the street from the target
building. With luck one can hit a window and get an explosion
inside an office or a corridor. But even when the grenade bounces
off an outside wall the explosion shatters windows, and the
shrapnel keeps people jumping.
If we keep it up long enough we can probably force the
government to shutter all the windows in Federal buildings, which
will certainly help raise the consciousness of Federal workers. But
it is clear that we can't maintain this kind of activity indefinitely.
We lost one of our best activists yesterday-Roger Greene, from
Unit 8-and we are bound to lose more as time passes.
The System must inevitably win any sort of war of attrition, considering the
numerical advantage they have over us.

We have talked this problem over among ourselves many times,
and we always come back to the same stumbling block: a
revolutionary attitude is virtually non-existent in America, outside
the Organization, and all our activities to date don't seem to have
changed this fact. The masses of people certainly aren't in love
with the System-in fact, their grumbling has increased steadily
over the past six or seven years as living conditions have
deteriorated - but they are still far too comfortable and complacent
to entertain the idea of revolt.
On top of this is the enormous disadvantage we suffer from
having the System controlling the image of us which reaches the
public. We receive a continuous feedback from our "legals" on
what the public is thinking, and most people have accepted without
hesitation the System's portrayal of us as "gangsters" and
"murderers."
Without some sort of empathy between us and the general public
we can never find enough new recruits to make up for our losses.
And with the System controlling virtually every channel of
communication with the public, it's hard to see how we're going to
develop that empathy. Our leaflets and the occasional seizure of a
broadcasting station for a few minutes just can't make much
headway against the non-stop torrent of brainwashing the System
uses for keeping the people in line.
The lights have just come on again-now that I'm ready to hit the
sack. Sometimes I think the System's own weaknesses will bring
about its downfall just as quickly without our help as with it. The
incessant power failures are only one crack among thousands in
this crumbling edifice we are trying so desperately to pull down.
November 8. The last few days have seen a major change in our
domestic affairs. The population in our shop increased to eight last
Thursday, and now it's down to four again: myself, Katherine, and
Bill and Carol Hanrahan, formerly of Unit 6.

Henry and George have teamed up with Edna Carlson, who also
came to us after Unit 6's disaster, and with Dick Wheeler, the only
survivor of a police raid on Unit Eleven's hideout Thursday. The four
of them have moved to a new location, in the District.
The new arrangement has us better divided along functional lines
than before-as well as solving the personal problem which had
been worrying Katherine and me. We here in the shop are now
essentially a technical-services unit, while the four who left are a
sabotage-and-assassination unit.
Bill Hanrahan is a machinist, a mechanic, and a printer. Until two
months ago he and Carol operated a printing shop in Alexandria.
His wife doesn't share his mechanical genius, but she is a
reasonably competent printer. As soon as we get another press set
up here, her job will be to produce many of the leaflets and other
propaganda materials which the Organization clandestinely
distributes in this area.
I will continue to be responsible for the Organization's
communications equipment and for specialized ordnance. Bill will
assist me with the latter and will also be our gunsmith and armory-
keeper.
Katherine will have a chance to exercise her editorial skills again,
to a limited extent, in that she will have the responsibility for
transforming the typewritten propaganda we receive from WFC
into camera-ready headlines and text for Carol. She will be able to
use her own discretion in making condensations, deletions, and
other changes necessary for copyfitting.
Bill and I finished our first special-ordnance job together
yesterday. We modified a 4.2 inch mortar to handle 81 mm
projectiles. The modification was necessary because we have so far
been unable to pick up an 81 mm mortar for the projectiles which
we grabbed in the raid on Aberdeen Proving Ground last month.
One of our gun-buff members, however, had a serviceable 4.2 inch
mortar which he had kept hidden away since the late 1940's.

The Organization is planning a very important mission in the nextday or two, in which the mortar will be used, and Bill and I were
under pressure to finish the job on time. Our main difficulty was in
finding a piece of steel tube of the right I.D. to weld inside the 4.2
inch tube, since we have no lathe or other machine tools at this
time. Once we found a supplier for the tube the rest was fairly
easy, and we are proud of the result-although it weighs more than
three times as much as an 81 mm mortar should.
Today we did a job which was simple enough in theory but which
gave us more trouble in practice than we had anticipated: melting
the explosive filler out of a 500-lb bomb casing. With a great deal
of straining and swearing-and with several good burns from the
boiling water we managed to splash all over ourselves-we got most
of the tritonal explosive from the bomb into a variety of empty
grapefruitjuice cans, peanutbutter jars, and other containers. The
work took all day and exhausted everyone's patience, but now we
have the makings for enough medium-sized bombs to last us for
months.
I think that I will find Bill Hanrahan a congenial comrade-in-arms
for carrying out our unit's new duties for the Organization. (We are
now designated Unit 6, and I am in charge.) Certainly the new
living arrangement here is more congenial for Katherine and me,
now that we are sharing OUR building with another married
couple instead of with two bachelors.
I just wrote "another married couple," but, of course, that was a
slip of the pen, since Katherine and I are not formally married. In
the last two months-and particularly in the last two or three weeks-
however, we have experienced so much together and become so
dependent on one another for companionship that a bond at least as
strong as that of marriage has developed between us.
In the past, whenever one of us had an Organizational assignment
to carry out, we usually contrived to work together on it. Now such
collaboration will not require any contrivance.

It is interesting that the Organization, which has imposed on all of us a life which is unnatural in many respects, has led to a more
natural relationship between the sexes inside the Organization than
exists outside. Although unmarried female members are
theoretically "equal" to male members, in that they are subject to
the same discipline, our women are actually cherished and
protected to a much larger degree than women in the general
society are.
Consider rape, for example, which has become such an
omnipresent pestilence these days. It had already been increasing
at a rate of 20 to 25 per cent per year since the early 1970's until
last year, when the Supreme Court ruled that all laws making rape
a crime are unconstitutional, because they presume a legal
difference between the sexes. Rape, the judges ruled, can only be
prosecuted under the statutes covering nonsexual assaults.
In other words, rape has been reduced to the status of a punch in
the nose. In cases where no physical injury can be proved, it is now
virtually impossible to obtain a prosecution or even an arrest. The
result of this judicial mischief has been that the incidence of rape
has zoomed to the point that the legal statisticians have recently
estimated that one out of every two American women can expect
to be raped at least once in her lifetime. In many of our big cities,
of course, the statistics are much worse.
The women's-lib groups have greeted this development with
dismay. It isn't exactly what they had in mind when they began
agitating for "equality" two decades ago. At least, there's dismay
among the rank and file of such groups; I have a suspicion that
their leaders, most of whom are Jewesses, had this outcome in
mind from the beginning.
Liberal civil rights spokesmen, on the other hand, have had only
praise for the Supreme Court's decision. Rape laws, they said, are
"racist," because a disproportionately large number of Blacks have
been charged under them.

Nowadays gangs of thugs hang around parking lots and
school playgrounds and roam the corridors of office buildings and apartment complexes, looking for any attractive, unescorted White
girl and knowing that punishment, either from the disarmed
citizenry or the handcuffed police, is extremely unlikely. Gang
rapes in school classrooms have become an especially popular new
sport.
Some particularly liberal women may find that this situation
provides a certain amount of satisfaction for their masochism, a
way of atoning for their feelings of racial "guilt." But for normal
White women it is a daily nightmare.
One of the sickest aspects of the whole thing is that many young
Whites, instead of opposing this new threat to their race, have
apparently decided to join it. White rapists have become more
common, and there have even been instances of integrated rape-
gangs recently.
Nor have the girls remained entirely passive. Sexual debauchery
of every sort on the part of young White men and women-and even
children in their pre-teens-has reached a level which would have
been unimaginable only two or three years ago. The queers, the
fetishists, the mixed-race couples, the sadists, and the
exhibitionists-urged on by the mass media- are parading their
perversions in public, and the public is joining them.
Just last week, when Katherine and I went into the District to pick
up the salaries for our unit-which finally came through, when we
were down nearly to our last can of soup-there was a nasty little
incident. While we were waiting at a bus stop for a homeward-
bound bus I decided to run into a drugstore a few feet away to buy
a newspaper. I was gone for no more than 20 seconds, but when I
came back a greasy-looking youth - approximately White, but with
the "Afro" hair style popular among young degenerates - was
taunting Katherine with obscenities while dancing and weaving
around her like a boxer.

(Note to the reader: "Afro" refers to the Negro or African race,
which, until its sudden disappearance during the Great Revolution,
exerted an increasingly degenerative influence on the culture and
life styles of the inhabitants of North America.)I grabbed him by the shoulder,
spun him around, and hit him in
the face as hard as I could. As he went down I had the deep,
primitive satisfaction of seeing four or five of his teeth come
washing out of his shattered mouth on a copious flow of dark-red
blood.
I reached into my pocket for my pistol, fully intending to kill him
on the spot, but Katherine seized my arm, and caution returned.
Instead of shooting him, I straddled him and directed three kicks at
his groin with all my strength. He jerked convulsively and emitted
a short, choking scream with the first kick, and then he lay still.
Passersby averted their eyes and hurried on. Across the street two
jerk-offs gawked and hooted. Katherine and I hurried around the
corner. We walked about six blocks, then doubled back and caught
the bus at another stop.
Katherine told me later that the youth had run up to her as soon as
I had entered the drugstore. He had put his arm around her,
propositioned her, and started pawing her breasts. She is fairly
strong and agile, and she was able to jerk away from him, but he
blocked her from following me into the drugstore.
As a rule Katherine carries a pistol, but the day was unseasonably
warm, unsuited for a coat, and she wore clothes which left no room
for concealing a firearm. Since she was with me she hadn't even
bothered to carry one of the tear-gas cannisters which have become
essential articles of dress for women these days.
In that regard it is interesting to note that the same people who
agitated so hysterically for gun confiscation before the Cohen Act
are now calling for tear gas to be outlawed too. There have even
been cases recently where women who used their tear gas to fend
off would-be rapists have been charged with armed assault!

The world has become so crazy that nothing really comes as a surprise
any more.
In contrast to the situation outside, rape inside the Organization is
almost unthinkable. But there is no doubt at all in my mind that if a
genuine case of forcible rape did occur, the perpetrator would be
rewarded with eight grams of lead within a matter of hours.When we got back to the shop, Henry and another man were
waiting for us. Henry wanted me to give him a final rundown on
the sight settings for the mortar we had modified. When they left,
they took the mortar with them. I still don't know what they will
use it for.
Katherine and I are both very fond of Henry, and we will miss his
presence in our new unit. He is the kind of person on whom the
success of the Organization will ultimately depend.
Katherine had already taught Henry most of her tricks of makeup
and disguise, and when he left with the mortar she gave him the
greater part of her supply of wigs, beards, plastic gizmoes, and
cosmetics.